


Baby Come Back

by seducing_a_vampire



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms, swiffer wet jet
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Crack, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Normal AU, POV Simon Snow, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, absolute idiots, background shepard / penny, but still, like one line, sneaky simpard, swiffer commercial au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28379517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seducing_a_vampire/pseuds/seducing_a_vampire
Summary: What if a Swiffer advert (namely,this one) made Simon realize he was in love with Baz?That's it, that's the whole fic.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 12
Kudos: 82
Collections: Secret Snowflake 2020





	Baby Come Back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Caitybug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caitybug/gifts).



> Dear Caity, you are too lovely, and I hope you enjoy this absolutely insane crack fic. It was a joy to write.
> 
> \---
> 
> A million thanks to Dem ([OtherWorldsIveLivedIn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn/pseuds/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn)) for beta reading and brit picking (sorry I used the word "couch" so many times) 💖
> 
> And, thank you so much to Lauren ([starwarned](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starwarned/pseuds/starwarned)) for being my shining star (ha) of encouragement, beta reading, and really elevating the mop humor. 💛

**SIMON, SATURDAY MORNING**

  
I’ve been watching too much telly. I’m at that point where, when I close my eyes, I still see the artificial glow of vaguely moving pictures in my head—which is also pounding dully. I’ve barely moved off the sofa since I came back from my classes on Thursday afternoon. 

Penny keeps sending me increasingly aggressive texts asking if I’m okay, if I’m taking care of myself and showering and making dinner and all those other external indicators of someone who has their life together. I’m not sure what she’s on about— it’s not like she’s a master chef herself. When we have dinner together outside of the dining hall, it usually means a frozen meal or dumping something from a tin onto a paper plate. If I’m eating Mint Aero bars for breakfast these days, it’s not anything new.

I _am_ okay, anyway. It's just that, the last few weeks have been shite, alright? Classes have been hell lately, I've been dealing with my arse of a roommate for months, and now my girlfriend just broke up with me for that aforementioned arse.

I mean, Agatha insists that wasn’t why she ended things. She told me it was that we had grown apart, that we’re better off as _just friends_. That we practically already are _just friends_. 

But Baz didn’t help! I know he’s been trying to pull Agatha all term. And I don’t see him chat up any other girls really, so I knew he must really have his eye on her.

He never wasted any opportunity to flirt with her. Whenever Agatha came over to study with me, he would look up from whatever posh book he was reading and cock one of his stupidly perfect eyebrows, and she would turn slightly pink. 

Well, it’s fine by me. If she wants to go out and snog my brooding, arrogant roommate instead of me—just because he has hair that smells good and falls nice and smooth all the time or whatever—she’s at perfect liberty to do so. 

There’s an uncomfortable squirm in my stomach at the thought of them snogging. Against my will, a picture pops into my head: being at someone’s flat next term for a party and stumbling across the two of them pressed up against each other in the corner of the hot room, Baz’s hand curled in her hair.

Agatha’s pretty tall, but Baz would still have to bend down quite a bit to make any kind of mouth-to-mouth contact. I imagine seeing his pale neck curve down toward her as he sticks his stupid tongue down her throat. 

(Baz is unfairly tall—taller than me!—the bastard. He always uses his height advantage to maximize the impact of his withering stares.) (I hate that I have to look up at him, so I try to avoid it whenever possible.)

My stomach gives another painful twinge, and I try to shake the image of the two of them out of my head. 

Yesterday’s cup of tea is still on the table in front of the sofa. I lean over to grab it and take a drink. If Baz were still here, he’d be making a fuss about the empty dishes and takeout containers littering the room, but he left to go see his family in Hampshire this weekend. It’s his little goth sister’s birthday or something. He swooped out of our flat yesterday morning without a backwards glance (neither of us have classes on Fridays). 

Penny went home this weekend, too. She asked if I wanted to come, but I didn’t want to get in the way. She’s bringing her new boyfriend Shepard home with her to meet her family for the first time. (He’s a cool bloke, even if he does like to talk your ear off.) (Also, he has really nice forearms.)

So now here I am, sprawled on my sofa, probably getting those sores people get on their bum when they sit down for too long, watching dumb reruns with dumb adverts. It’s always the _same_ adverts too, over and over again. Like the Swiffer Wet Jet one with that 70s yacht rock song blaring— _Baby Come Back!_ I swear that one has played ten times already today.

I swing my arms up high and stretch, feeling the burn in my muscles and feeling bitter about my life. It’s just past noon, and I’ve nothing better to do, so I reckon I’ll take a nap.

I groan loudly (no one’s here to hear me, anyway) and shove my face into the pillow on the sofa, which smells faintly of Baz’s cedar and bergamot shampoo. The last thing I think of before I fall asleep is how much money the vain git probably spends on that stupid stuff just to make his dark hair all soft and shiny.

~~~

_I’m hiding behind a tree in the yard of an ordinary-looking house, longing to see inside. Something is— off. I’m not myself. I can’t explain it, but somehow I realize that I am a_ mop _._

_The certainty of that realisation washes over me like it only can in a dream, and with it comes a rushing sense of inadequacy. I’m a mop, and no matter how much I try. I’ll always be outshined. I’ll never get what I truly want. What is it that I want, again?_

_I look back at the house again. Agatha is in there, and I hear her laughing. I see a glimpse through the window; she’s in a plain gray jumper with her hair pulled back. Oh, right. Agatha is what I want._

_But before I can notice anything else about her, I see— Baz. He’s inside the house with her, and he looks different. Sleek, strong, somehow even taller than usual, and he’s purple. He’s… well, he’s a Swiffer Wet Jet. And he looks good._

_Agatha is still laughing as she cleans the floors, but all I can see is Baz, swirling around gracefully. He makes it look effortless. He always does that. How does he always look so cool? Never a hair out of place. The floors are shining, and despite myself, I marvel at how great Baz is at this._

_I suddenly remember that I’m not standing here just to watch Baz, but because I’ve arranged for a flower delivery— why? Oh yeah, for Agatha. My ex-girlfriend. Who’s in the house with Baz right now. Baz…_

_As if on cue the delivery man strolls up the drive. When he rings the bell, I see Agatha’s expression change as she looks pityingly at me, but my eyes shift quickly to Baz, who spins around slyly. Show-off. And I swear somehow I see him cock an eyebrow, and I hate how he still pulls it off._

_I can’t help it— I keep watching Baz longingly, marveling at the work he’s doing._ I couldn’t do that, _I think._ I’m just a mop _. I couldn’t clean the floors as well as he could, and he’ll never think I’m good enough._

_Wait, he? I mean, Agatha won’t think I’m good enough. Oh, I see she’s already sent the delivery man away._

_All at once, I hear the abrupt ringing of a voice crooning “Baby Come Back!” , which overwhelms every other thought. As I hear electric guitar chords playing mournfully in my head, I realize I’m still staring at Baz._

_~~~_

I sit up in a jolt. _What in the seven hells…_ I wipe a wet patch of drool off my chin as I shut my eyes tightly again, trying to call back the images from my dream that are slipping away. There was… cleaning. Mopping? And someone was there— Baz. He was...well, I thought he was _hot._ And now _my_ cheeks feel hot. No. It was the Mint Aero bars I had for breakfast. It must’ve been. 

I can’t imagine why I would have such a stupid dream, but I guess I’ve been losing it the last few weeks. It didn’t mean anything, obviously. And why is this song stuck in my head?

_~~~_

It won’t go away. The song, that is. Every second of the day, it’s playing in my head: 

_Baby come back! You can blame it all on me._

I guess I should be thinking about Agatha. That probably explains the dream. I want her back, don’t I? Actually— I don’t know. Maybe she was right. We really didn’t work very well as a couple. I don’t really want to think about it at all, actually— I try not to think about things that stress me out— but I can’t _help_ it, can I? With this blasted song? 

Every time I think I’ve managed to get the song un-stuck from my head, there it goes again, ringing out like an emergency siren. _I was wrong, and I just can’t live without you_.

I mean, I wouldn’t really say I _can’t live without_ Agatha. That seems a bit dramatic. And anyway, like she said, I think we’ll still be friends even though we broke up. So that’s fine, really. Maybe it is for the best.

I wonder when Baz is coming back. I can’t rest well when I don’t know where he is. It’s because I worry that he’s plotting against me. Also, it’s not as much fun to steal his salt and vinegar crisps when he’s not here to notice and give me shit for it. 

_~~~_

I try to distract myself all day. I figure I have to get off the sofa— the sofa is what did this to me. The sofa and the telly and weirdly sexual cleaning product commercials.

I order takeout again for dinner from the cheapest place nearby. I bet Baz is having a really posh dinner with his family right now, with steak or something, the kind of meal where there are more forks on the table than things to say to each other. 

After dinner, I even try to do some homework (I usually consider it a base offence to even look at work on Saturdays), but I don’t get very far. My brain swims with every word I read, and I can’t stop fidgeting.

Despite all my attempts at distraction, when I lay down to sleep, I keep hearing electric guitar cords in the back of my head.

Stupid song. Stupid, dumb dream. But there’s someone from the dream I can’t stop thinking about. And it’s not Agatha— it’s Baz. I gulp. 

Fuck. I think I fancy Baz.

  
  


**BAZ, SUNDAY EVENING**

I drive back from Hampshire slowly, dreading my return to the flat I share with Snow.

It’s insufferable sharing with him anytime— he’s notorious for leaving dishes in the sink and dropping his coat just wherever he decides he’s done with it; he and Bunce are always sitting on the sofa, watching dumb shows on the telly at far too high a volume, and he leaves a trail of scone crumbs wherever he goes.

Now that he and Agatha have broken up, though, it’ll be unbearable. Not for Snow-being-a-bumbling-idiot reasons, but for godforsaken affair-of-the-heart reasons. I usually manage to keep my yearning at an arm’s length, but now it’s bound to reach cosmic levels. Because, newly single, Snow is infinitesimally more in the realm of theoretical possibility as a romantic attachment. 

Operative word there is _infinitesimally_. And _theoretical._ Because, as Fiona told me brazenly when I attempted to bare my soul to her this morning in a rare show of vulnerability, ‘infinitesimally more than zero’ is still pretty low. I earned a shove in my shoulder for inquiring if she thought a lack of success with meaningful romantic endeavors ran in the family. 

I let out a big sigh, park my father’s Jaguar, and walk toward the flat. When I turn the key and open the door, I am greeted by a surprising sight:

The flat, a disaster. Shit everywhere— dishes, Mint Aero wrappers, takeout containers. Snow, sprawled out on the couch, eyes shut and mouth wide open. An open bag of my salt and vinegar crisps is on the floor in front of him.

And the strangest thing of all— the telly is blasting some god awful eighties song. _Don’t you want me, baby?_ How is he sleeping through this racket? And what on earth is this song?

I slam the door behind me, and Snow wakes up with a start, eyes popping. He wipes a bit of drool away, which I should find absolutely abhorrent but instead I regrettably find myself wishing I was the one wiping it off of his cheek.

I walk toward the sofa and the numpty now sitting upright on it. “Good morning, Snow,” I say in my most polished voice. “How was your beauty sleep? I see my absence has troubled you.” 

I’m expecting a scowl, maybe a couple of minutes of verbal jousting, but most likely just a growled “fuck you” before he stomps back into his bedroom.

What I am not expecting is what I get instead: a pained expression, reddened cheeks, his perfectly ordinary blue eyes softening slightly. I stare at him. 

He runs his hand nervously through his hair, which looks even more mop-like than usual today. His bronze curls are especially unruly in his post-nap state, and a few of them stick up at odd angles. (He looks gorgeous, of course.)

“What’s the matter, Snow?” I ask slowly, before it hits me— of course. His breakup. He’s suffering from the dissolution of their blessed union.

“Don’t worry,” I continue sarcastically, “I’m sure you and Wellbelove will get back together and ride off into the sunset any day now.” 

The baffling 70s song has finally finished its last grating note, and there’s silence for a beat or two before Snow finally speaks. 

“It’s not— it’s not that, Baz. I’m not upset about Agatha.” 

I study his face (I know it better than my own), and he appears to be sincere. Not that he’s very capable of lying, anyway. He’s not exactly an expert at holding in his emotions. Which is something that I’ve had a lot of practice with.

He’s looking at me, still with the same pained expression on his face. His eyes keep flickering up and down, to my… _to my lips,_ I think suddenly, and my stomach clenches reflexively. It can’t be.

“For Christ’s sake,” I respond. “What is it then?” 

I realise I’m still holding my bag, and I step away for a moment, turning from Snow, to set it inside my bedroom. When I look back, I see that his gaze followed me. I start to feel my face flush a bit underneath his stare. 

“It’s not Agatha,” he repeats. “It’s someone else.” 

Before I know what’s happening, he’s crossed the remaining distance between us (I’m a statue, I’m frozen to the floor), and he puts his hands roughly on each of my shoulders (my mind goes blank), and then his mouth is on my mouth and _oh._

Simon’s mouth is hot. Everything is hot. My brain is fuzzy.

Snow’s always been bad at planning and striking. He just _goes off_ , and when he does, he takes down everything in his path. Right now, that’s me. 

For the first few seconds of the kiss I’m still frozen, and then I somehow return to my body and respond with fervor: wrapping my arms around him, moving my hands up to run my fingers through his glorious curls, cupping his face. He seems to have the same idea— his hands make their way to my hair too, and he hums a bit as he brushes through it lightly. 

And it’s bliss. It’s so _so_ good. I don’t even want to think about how good it is, because thinking about it might take some of my energy away from actually _kissing Simon Snow_. 

Far too quickly, he pulls away— abruptly, like everything else he does. “Baz, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what got into me— I know I’m being an idiot— I know you’re too good for me.” 

His face is crestfallen, and mine is surely showing the shock I feel. 

I’m still struggling to process the words coming out of his mouth. (I was just kissing that mouth. Because _he_ kissed _me_. Why did he stop? Actually, why did he start?)

“Listen, I really— I really shouldn’t have done that— I’ve been thinking about it all day, and I can’t get you out of my head, and then you were _here_. Like, in human form. Christ, Baz, I like you so much.”

Wait, what?

“— Don’t worry… I’ll get over this, I promise. I should go.”

Get over this? He has something to . . . get over?

He’s still clinging to my shirt, but he starts to lessen his grip. I grab his hands and hold them.

I sigh. How many sighs have I spent on this man? 

“If it’s anything like what I’ve got, there’s no getting over it, I’m afraid.” 

His eyes widen, and this time I lean in and kiss him. The instant my lips touch his, his arms wrap around my waist and pull me toward him. 

The last kiss was eager, giddy, what-on-earth-is-happening. This one is soft, deliberate, don’t-you-know-how-long-I’ve-loved-you. 

Simon’s got his hands cupped around my face now, and my face feels alight with every inch of his contact. I pull away for a second to press my lips to a mole on his cheek that I’ve wanted to kiss since the first day he walked into our flat, and his fingers move to my chin to direct my mouth back to his.

My hands twist into his hair again. (How long have I wanted to touch this hair?) (It’s just as rough as I thought it would be— the 3-in-1 shampoo.)

After a minute— or maybe twenty— I feel him smile a bit against my mouth. 

“Hey Baz,” he says, and his eyes are flashing with fire, they’re blazing, and I’m in danger of burning up just from that look. “How do you feel about Swiffer Wet Jets?”

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was NOT sponsored by Swiffer.
> 
> thank you for reading these extremely silly words!
> 
> [find me on tumblr ](https://seducing-a-vampire.tumblr.com/)


End file.
